Life in Death
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Molly Hooper finds an antique pocket watch in a thrift shop, resulting in her being haunted by the ghost of a Victorian Era Sherlock Holmes, who happens to have once been a tenant of her flat. Follow this annoyed-at-first-sight story full of witty banter, eventual romance, and an attempted murder most foul.
1. Prologue

_I'd never given much thought on the subject of love. Sure, it's something I want to believe in—and it does exist—but it only lasts for a select few. I suppose most little girls dreamt of their future husbands and having the fairytale love they strive for, but I didn't have that luxury. My parents separated whilst I was still very young—barely six years old. It was an event that impacted my views greatly. It's not that I didn't believe in love, but that I didn't believe I would find it._

 _Who knew a simple trip to the thrift shop would result in bringing home a spirit attached to the very object that caught my eyes?_

 _Who knew it would be a spirit that I would inevitably fall in love with? Oh, how cruel life could be._

* * *

It's no secret that I love all things vintage. The moment I stepped into the thrift shop, I was overcome with vellichor. In a far corner, I could hear aged book pages being flipped through steadily. I was once deemed unusual for being able to differentiate the condition of a book simply by hearing the sound the pages made.

I browsed through the vinyl albums for a bit, taking in the environment before me every now and then. It was then a gleam caught my eye from across the room. The sun beams' angle had changed, shining through the windows, bouncing off the very item that would change my life forever.

It was a display of miscellaneous items collected through the years that I approached. My fingers traced the engraving on the bronze cover, wondering who this person could have been.

 _W.S.S.H._

An interesting set of initials, they were, to say the least. I felt so drawn to the beautiful timepiece; I had already admitted defeat in my mind. There was no way I could leave here without it.

As soon as I wrapped my fingers around the cool bronze finish of the pocket watch, a spine-tingling chill came over me. Despite the circumstances, I felt compelled to purchase the antique.

I decided to walk home rather than take a cab, as it was a beautiful autumn day. I took in the smell of the crisp air and the sound of dead leaves crunching beneath my feet. It was my favourite season, after all.

When I reached my flat, 221B, turning the doorknob, I heard a faint whisper in my ear. It sounded like a man's voice; baritone, smooth as whiskey. All I heard him say was one word that turned my world upside down—my name.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This is my first serious story in first person POV, so please tell me if you like the new style!


	2. Give Up the Ghost

I was hearing voices. Well, just one—his…whoever he was. A week of this madness, and I was ready to accept I was going insane. It was a late work night for me. I had just finished the autopsies of two murder victims with the same calling card attached, which just so happened to be the letters 'I.O.U.' carved into each victim's hand. Scotland Yard was stumped at what it could possibly mean. I, however, planned to do what I could to deduce the killer's motive. I wasn't a detective by any means, but forensic pathology is a necessity in any kind of detective work.

When I arrived at my building, taking out my keys to unlock my flat, I heard a voice—the same voice—speaking rapidly. I was cautious, of course, when I opened my door. A chilled breeze blew throughout the flat eerily enough. What I saw was the last thing I expected. A man was sitting in my chair, but he was translucent. He looked as if he walked out of the pages of a Dickens novel. His onyx hair was slicked back, making him look quite distinguished. He wore a camel-coloured dressing gown over his suit, and he was somehow smoking a pipe. What truly caught my attention were those beautiful cerulean eyes. Though, he was translucent, I could still see the brightness of the color.

"It's Moriarty," he said simply, taking a puff of his pipe.

"Who is?" I asked, dumbfounded. The name he mentioned sounded vaguely familiar. Unbelievable, I was conversing with a ghost. Or I was crazy. I think I preferred the former.

"Your serial killer," he replied. "I thought it was fairly obvious. He's a copycat of my arch-nemesis."

"Right, sorry, who are you?" I was definitely going to get put away in the looney bin for this.

"Sherlock Holmes." He stood with his hand outstretched. "I don't know why I bother. It's not as if you can touch my—"

I gasped as my hand met with his. I could feel him, but faintly. It seemed to have shut him up too. I pulled away quickly at the icy feel of him. And then it hit me.

"Sherlock Holmes!? The one from Doctor Watson's stories?" I couldn't believe this was happening. I had done extensive studies on those stories out of fascination with his brilliant mind.

"Ah, so you've heard of me then? Wonderful. By the way, you're living in my flat." He sounded annoyed with her already.

"Well, yes, but—"

"And you now own my pocket watch. Delightful." He didn't sound very delighted. "What have you done to my flat? It looks so"—he searched for the right word—"meticulously clean." His nose wrinkled at that.

"Well, excuse me, but I live here now, not you," I retorted.

"It's a disgrace," Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, you're dead, so get over it!" I snapped. I had had it with him already. They tell you to never meet your heroes. I understood why now.

His expression showed a flash of pain at my comment before it settled into a cold look in those eyes. And that's when I watched him disappear, fading into obscurity once more. Good riddance.

* * *

I fell asleep rather quickly despite the circumstances. As I padded out of my room toward the kitchen, I could smell the strong scent of smoke from a pipe. I ignored it, as I was more focused on making my cup of coffee. Soon, the kitchen felt cool, and I knew he was probably standing behind me. I continued to focus on my task at hand. I had thought I dreamt him up, or had possibly hallucinated due to my long shift. Sherlock Holmes was really haunting me, and he already rattled my nerves.

"You know, if this arrangement is unchangeable, then we might as well find some common ground," he finally spoke up.

"Don't you have an opium den to haunt?" I asked with no patience.

"Are you always this moody?"

"Aren't you?"

"Touché, Miss Hooper." He sighed out of frustration. "It seems we have reached an impasse."

"Glad you agree on that," I replied, taking a sip of my coffee, the smooth liquid sliding down my throat. I stomped off with my cuppa into my bedroom, and when I came out dressed, I had brought with me the object that caused all this trouble.

"Wait—what are you doing with that?" Sherlock inquired urgently. He rushed to my side, pestering me about my intentions.

"I'm taking this damned thing back to the thrift shop. I never asked for this," I told him.

"You don't want me here." It wasn't a question. I didn't pay him any mind until I turned and met his gaze. His eyes looked sad, but the rest of his face was like marble; unmoving and cold. I said nothing. "Miss Hooper, please. Forgive me. I am not usually rude towards women—well, I try not to be."

"You're forgiven, Mister Holmes, but I'm afraid I just can't handle this," I admitted.

"Then meet me halfway. Let us strike a deal," Sherlock suggested. I looked at him with curiosity. "If you take that back to the shop, I will be stuck there for God know how long. If I am here, you could help me."

"Help you with what?" Damn my curious nature.

"Apparently the only reason I am stuck is because I have unfinished business. What it is, I haven't the slightest idea. But, if you help me find out what it could be, I will be free from that blasted pocket watch. We will both get what we want." He made a good point.

"Why didn't you get someone from the thrift shop to help you?" I inquired.

"Because, Miss Hooper," he spoke lowly, "you're the only one who has ever been able to see me."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Our new roommates don't seem to be getting along very often. What do y'all think Sherlock's unfinished business is?


	3. And We Just Go in Circles

Several days had passed since I reluctantly agreed to help my ghostly roommate. As my new official partner in crime-solving—or perhaps I was his—I decided to carry the pocket watch with me to work. Where it went, Sherlock went, which turned out to be fortuitous given that another body showed up in the morgue with the same letters carved in her hand. And, so, it was here I found myself performing another autopsy with the less-than-corporeal Sherlock Holmes at my side.

"Could you stop breathing down my neck?" I asked with annoyance.

"I would if I had any," he quipped. "Breath, that is." I couldn't help but giggle at his dead-pan humor. "You're quite scrupulous with your autopsies, Miss Hooper. I'm impressed."

For a ghost, his beaming smile left me feeling warm and rather proud of his unsolicited approval. "I believe that's the first compliment I've received from you," I said, blushing. "Thank you."

His brow knitted with bemusement. "Have I really been that unbearable to be around?" he asked.

"Well, let's see," I began, taking a brief pause from the chest spreader. "You constantly criticize my clothing, the cleanliness of my flat, and the fact I apparently put too much sugar in my coffee," I listed, ticking them off on my fingers. "You've also taken to wander aimlessly about the flat at night, which tends to keep me awake. There might be a few things you've forgotten about being human, such as the importance of sleep. I think that's a good start…although I anticipate the list to grow."

"Interesting," he remarked.

"What is?"

"You haven't mentioned my pipe smoke."

"It doesn't bother me; I love the sweet cherry scent," I answered, somewhat distracted with my hands in the dead woman's chest. "What does this calling card have to do with Moriarty? He's dead."

"I.O.U. referred to his promise to make me fall." His eyes briefly glazed over with a faraway look, as though remembering something he'd rather forget. "I'm sure you've read the story."

"Yes, I have." I removed some tissue samples, placing them in a dish for the lab. "I'm just wondering if this is really a random copycat, or could it be a descendant of Moriarty?"

"Your powers of deduction are brilliant, Miss Hooper! I'll make a fine detective of you yet."

There it was again, that radiant smile of his, and those beautiful blue eyes eagerly inviting me to join in his enthusiasm. It's hardly my fault that my heart was left pounding thunderously in chest, echoing so loudly in my ears I could barely hear myself think. He was magnetic, hard to resist, and I couldn't help but wonder what his hair might be like in its natural state, or how it might feel to run my fingers through those luscious, thick curls that fell carelessly along his forehead.

I silently chastised myself, grateful he wasn't a mind reader. What the bloody hell was I doing anyway, falling for a ghost?! Granted, I was in a bit of a dry spell where my love life was concerned, but this…this was irrational; illogical, even. Still, the more time we spent together, the more my curiosity grew.

"Wh-what about you?" I asked as nonchalant as possible. "Do you, um, have any descendants?" It seemed like a perfectly logical question, considering we were exploring ancestral links.

"Nope." He emphasized the 'p' as though the idea were distasteful. "Romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for others, Miss Hooper, held little interest, along with an unnecessary distraction from my work. The work was more important." Sherlock disappeared from my side, and across the morgue. It was an unnerving habit of his. "If this really is a descendant of Moriarty, then, logically, our evil-doing fiend must be my unfinished business. Always remember, when you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"You really think so?"

He winked. "I know so. Let's catch ourselves a serial killer, shall we?"

* * *

Once I concluded the autopsy, I left the watch in my locker to meet up with my friend, and co-worker, Meena at the canteen. The last thing I needed was a side conversation with an invisible person, in public, who would have no problem expressing his every opinion, insisting upon my attention.

"So I heard you talking to someone when I passed by the morgue." Of course Meena would begin a conversation like this.

"He's my, uh, roommate." I anxiously bit my lip. "He called me."

Meena's face lit up with curiosity. "You finally got a roommate!? What's he like?"

"He's very…spirited." I nearly laughed at my own humor.

After distracting Meena from asking too many questions about the roommate I would never be able to explain, we finished our tea, leaving only a few hours left on my shift. Grateful that Sherlock chose to remain in his mind palace, as well as my lab pocket, I was able to go through my paper work in record time. Then, a curious thing happened. While reaching for my cup of coffee, I dropped my pen on the floor, which isn't that curious at all. But, bending down to pick it up, I found an envelope with my name...the handwriting quite lovely. It was a short and sweet request from a co-worker that left me mildly astonished at its Victorian formality.

 _Molly,_

 _I know we've only worked together for a few months, but I'm afraid I can't ignore this feeling any longer. If you're up to it, perhaps we could have coffee sometime or maybe even dinner? I'd like to get to know you better._

 _Best regards,_

 _Thomas_

Of course I found his approach highly unusual. Having trained Thomas when he first started three months ago, he never struck me as the shy type. Why not just ask in person, or give a ring? Still, he was always very sweet to me, and we all do silly things once in a while. Maybe he was trying to impress me? And, sadly, I wasn't having a bit of a dry spell where dating was concerned. A one year, involuntary hiatus was beginning to feel like a seven year drought. Where's the harm in having coffee...or dinner? It's not like a commitment, or anything, and I do like to eat...

But what if it was terribly boring? It was difficult for me to find anyone that held my interest. My mum always said I was fickle, and my standards were set too high. Perhaps she's right, but is it such a crime to want the best for myself? I used to joke with her, saying that maybe I was just a woman out of her time. I wanted adventure, and was much too bored with mundane life.

"You're thinking too loudly," Sherlock's voice reverberated through me, making me jump and nearly fall off my chair.

"Oh Christ! Don't do that," I gasped, my hand resting on my chest, whilst catching my breath. "I doubt you can hear me think."

"You're right, I can't," he replied matter-of-factly. "But I can feel a certain amount of tension in the room."

"The only tension you're feeling right now is you nearly causing me to jump out of my skin. No offense."

"None taken. However, I always trust my instincts, Miss—"

"Then please trust this," I interrupted, my impatience growing. "Instead of discussing 'tension in the room', maybe we should figure out if Moriarty had any children, and go from there."

"Balance of probability says no. Perhaps his brother did. He was a stationmaster, and relatively normal," Sherlock informed me, cocking his head in my direction, a slight twinkle in his lovely blue eyes. "Did you know his name was James too? Colonel James Moriarty."

I didn't know and was unable to hide my surprise by this information. "He and his brother shared the same name?"

"Yes, very disappointing in its unoriginality," he sighed. "Now, what are you going to say?"

"About what?"

"Not about; who. The man behind the letter."

"You…you read my letter?"

"No need. It was obvious."

It had been a long day. I was tired, and his imperiousness was getting on my last nerve. "Obvious?"

"Clearly. Your breathing was elevated from the moment you opened the envelope. As you read, and considered the words on the page, the pupils of your eyes dilated, your tongue slipped over your lips several times - no doubt an invitation to dinner - and you have a habit of twirling a strand of hair when interested in the attentions of the opposite sex. That should be enough to be getting on with, unless you'd like more?"

"It's none of your business," I snapped, grabbing my keys and ready to storm from the room. I had half a mind to leave the pocket watch, and him, in my locker for the night.

"While it's been a year, perhaps longer," Sherlock continued, "since you've courted any gentleman worthy of your affections, Miss. Hooper, I suggest you postpone any further involvement from the dubious, masculine intention and keep your priorities on me. This is a mutually advantageous arrangement, if you recall. The sooner this unfinished business is over with, the sooner I can move on and you can return your attention to this boy."

I was furious with him. "He is not a boy!"

"While it is not in my nature to contradict a budding romance such as yours, no self-respecting man would dare approach a beautiful, young woman with impoverished meagerness."

"Yes, you would, and you are. And, if you must know, I'm going to tell him 'yes.'" Pride had gotten the better of me, as did the condescending attitude of a one hundred and fifty year old ghost. I had no intention of saying 'yes' to Thomas, but I refused to be bullied and needed to prove something...although I wasn't exactly sure what. Perhaps I was only infuriated that he seemed to think he knew everything about me.

"Fine," he muttered, then disappeared.

"Fine."

I slipped the watch in my pocket, but couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment. Somewhere between his arrogance, and me needing to prove something, I wanted his argument to mean something more than unfinished business. Or, maybe, I was stalling for time? If we solved the case, what then? He'd leave and, as much as it pained me to admit this, I wasn't ready to say good-bye.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** a big thank you to penelope1730 for helping me figure out what was missing from this chapter! Any theories? Or favorite parts/lines?


	4. Broken Hearts and Twisted Minds

Have you ever looked into a mirror only to see a new version of yourself? Not outwardly, but deep inside, you know you've changed. I couldn't quite place what it was about me that was shifting, but whatever it was, I felt like I was closer to my true self than I've been in a while. I examined myself in the burgundy off-the-shoulder dress that now hugged my curves in all the right places. I had only ever worn it once before a couple of years ago, and thought I'd take it for another spin. The color complemented my dark hair and brown eyes, and a simple black belt wrapped around my abdomen gave it the needed contrast.

I only applied eyeliner, leaving the rest of my face natural. Simple was always best in my opinion. I left my hair down in loose waves around my shoulders. After taking a deep breath, I stepped outside of my room, and approached the sitting room where Sherlock was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Is he here yet?" I asked, pulling at my dress to make sure there were absolutely no wrinkles. I watched as Sherlock turned around, ready to open his mouth and rant I'm sure, but instead he blinked his eyes several time. His mouth was agape in what I can only describe as astonishment. I couldn't tell if he was ready to deduce me to pieces, or if he was going to simply think twice before speaking. Oh God, what if I looked terrible!? "I look awful, don't I?"

"N—no, Miss Hooper. Quite the opposite." It wasn't usual for him to stumble over his words. I watched as he smoothed his hand over his hair. "I am sure you will captivate Mister Jameson's fancy."

I blushed at his remark, silently wishing the man in front of me was alive. I quickly shook the thought from my head. It was ludicrous! Here I am about to go out for dinner with Thomas, and yet, I'm still pining for this infuriating ghost of a man. I needed to get it together. I could hear my mum's voice in my head already if she believed this situation.

 _"How terribly morbid of you, Molly. Get your head out of the clouds and find an actual prospect."_

My mum still got on my nerves even when she lived miles away.

"Thank you," I managed to get out, my throat suddenly feeling dry. In fact, I was parched. I hardly heard Sherlock's flat tone of voice announce that Thomas was here. Upon hearing the knock on my door, I approached to open it. I was nervous—not for the date—but because I was afraid Sherlock would somehow be seen even though I'm the only one he's known to be able to see him.

"Molly, you look dazzling," Thomas smiled sweetly. His dirty blonde curls were tamed, more so than usual. I noticed him look around the room, his eyes locking on something in the far corner, but I hadn't bothered to see what it was that captured his interest.

"Suck up," Sherlock murmured from somewhere in the room.

"Shhh," I hissed in annoyance. Why the hell did I ever think I could have feelings for him?

"What?" Thomas asked, his brows knit in confusion.

"Oh, nothing," I laughed it off. "We should head out if we're to make our reservation."

"Indeed," he agreed, taking my hand in his.

I told myself this was exactly what I needed whilst we were in the cab. If that were true, why did I feel so uneasy about this date at all? Sherlock was back at the flat, and I was safe from his tiresome comments.

Dinner was delicious, and the wine was crisp in flavour. We talked of little things about ourselves, and our interests, but to be honest, I wasn't quite interested in him. He seemed the type to sit on the sidelines rather than dare to live life to the absolute fullest. He was nice enough, sure, but a bit too predictable…or so I thought.

"Forgive me for bringing up work," he began as dessert was brought to our table, "but I wondered what you thought of our latest serial killer. Is he brilliant, or simply just a madman?"

"Oh, well, I suppose it depends on which way you look at it." I felt tense, but didn't want to be rude. "You'd have to be mad to murder in the first place, but the calling card is a brilliant feature. I believe it refers to Doctor Watson's story, ' _The Final Problem_.'" I hoped I wasn't giving too much away, but I highly doubted Thomas would just assume I've been working with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.

The smile that adorned his face was one of satisfaction. But, when he thought I wasn't looking, there was something menacing about his look that sent a chill down my spine. He didn't quite look like himself, and it was unsettling. I couldn't help but feel wary around him. My heart rate elevated rapidly, and the feeling of nauseousness made my stomach protest the cheesecake I had for dessert. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to leave, but if Thomas was dangerous, I didn't want to cause a scene, possibly getting myself killed. His interest in our newest serial killer only meant one of two things: either he was obsessed with this case, or he was the man behind it all. Granted, the entire hospital staff has been talking about it, but he seemed to be eager over it.

One thing that clued me into Thomas being a possible suspect is that he asked if the killer was brilliant, and was satisfied when I said that the calling card was. Serial killers are known to have ridiculously large egos—of that, I was sure. Another thing—and this was a stretch—but his last name was 'Jameson.' The meaning of that name is 'Son of James.' Could be coincidental, but my intuition told me I was on a date with a descendant of Colonel James Moriarty.

I decided to text Meena, my hands and phone beneath the table. She said she'd be here in five, so I continued my faux fascination with Thomas. When she let me know that she was entering the restaurant, I got up, letting my date know I needed the ladies' room. As I stood up, I felt dizzy. The room was spinning.

"Molly, are you alright?" Thomas asked. His hand was clasped on my shoulder. I tried to shrug him off, but I had no control of my body. I only felt relief when Meena came running to catch me.

"Oh my God, Molly!" Meena shouted. "Thomas, what happened!?"

"I-I don't know," he spoke frantically. "She got up to use the restroom, and then she started fainting."

"Uh-huh," Meena raised her eyebrow, unimpressed. "C'mon, Molly, I'll get you home safe."

I was feeling nauseas by the time we made it back to my flat. I noticed the look of horror on Sherlock's face when he saw Meena bring me in.

"Miss Hooper, what happened!?" He rushed towards me, following right behind Meena who was bringing me to the bathroom. I ended up retching into the bowl, emptying the contents of my stomach. I panted heavily, a sheen of sweat building up on my face.

"I can't believe he used a date-rape drug on you; these are classic signs of one. Rohypnol is what it is by the looks of it." Meena dug through my bathroom cupboard for a washcloth. I looked up and saw the worry etched on Sherlock's face. He truly was genuinely upset over what had happened. I felt a light pressure on my shoulder, knowing it was my ghostly friend attempting to comfort me.

Gradually, I felt myself slip in and out of consciousness. The last thing I remembered was Meena helping change me out of my dress, into my pajamas, and being put to bed. That's when it all went black, though I do remember my dream vividly.

 _I felt the tightening of my corset squeeze my body. I was about to meet the man my parents had arranged for me to marry according to my lady's maid._

 _"What if he is repelled by me?" I asked, pacing around my bedroom. The four poster bed looked quite inviting._

 _"Well, ma'am, according to Doctor Watson, he is not very fond of romantic relations, but his parents want grandchildren, and won't stop pestering him about it."_

 _"Sounds like a real charmer." I was, of course, disappointed about this. I would never—could never—find love with a man such as that. I refused to be nothing more than a breed mare. So I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I ran._

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So, Thomas is Moriarty's descendant! Brownie points for those of you who guessed it! Sherlock's beginning to show real affection for Molly. What do y'all think? xo


	5. In Another Life

_I knew the best place to run to without being seen was the thicket of trees behind my family's estate. I hadn't given any thought to the fact that a serial killer had been running rampant for the past week. I gasped in pain as I felt the scratch of a thorn against my leg, resulting in a torn stocking. Nothing could stop me from escaping a loveless marriage…not even the warm trickle of blood sliding down my calf._

 _I heard a twig snap, knowing full well it wasn't I who made that sound. It soon sounded as if someone was behind me, but I refused to turn around. The sound of my pounding heart echoed in my ears, and my breath was only coming out in short spurts in the chilled night air. The footsteps behind me ceased just a few moments before my foot got caught in a tree root. The leaves crunched when I hit the ground. I struggled to free myself, and I tried my best to keep myself from panicking. That was when I felt a rough hand upon my shoulder and a dagger at my neck. I turned to face my assailant whose expression could only be described as sinister, his dark hair slicked back. The last thing I remembered was the blood-curdling scream I let out before my demise._

I woke up in a state of panic, screaming just as I had in the dream. It had been two nights since my nightmare dinner date, and the second night I dreamt of another life—a life that ended much too soon.

"You talk about me keeping you awake, but that scream of yours, Miss Hooper, could wake the dead." Sherlock smiled in amusement at his own joke, but his expression soon faltered as he took in my disheveled state. "Are you quite alright?"

"Just a-a nightmare is all." I struggled to catch my breath, and reached out to grab my nightstand, but instead, felt a hand. It was strangely electrifying, as I could feel his hand as if he were alive. The calluses on his fingers were a result from his affinity for composing on his violin. He felt cold, as was to be expected, but it was somehow still comforting. "How are we touching?"

"I've been practicing on objects," he informed me, his thumb sliding across the back of my hand. He looked pensive as whatever thoughts he had ran through his head. "I figured if there was anyone worth the incessant concentration it takes to go corporeal for, it was you."

I could hardly believe the words that left his mouth. I was worth the amount of energy he had to channel to touch me. Perhaps it was only because he craved human interaction. I decided to change the topic, whilst getting some information for myself. "Tell me something about your life." I hoped he would tell me what I needed to know.

"I was once betrothed," he confessed as if he read my mind. "Mind you, it is not a happy story." A look of sadness—or perhaps guilt—came over his face.

"Tell me anyway," I encouraged him. I was sure the story he was about to tell me would match the ongoing dream I've been having.

Sherlock sighed, letting go of my hand. "Very well, then." He paced the room, possibly wondering if he should go through with the story. "My parents and hers had us arranged to be married. I was late to show up at her estate simply because I had never wanted any of it. My mum was quite adamant about wanting a grandchild, and my father coerced me into this farce to make her happy. When I arrived, everyone was gathered in the sitting room, panicking about the fact she was missing. Apparently, she had no intentions of marrying me either, and decided to run. It was only moments before we heard her scream, much like the way you did when you woke from your nightmare." Sherlock looked off into the distance, his face lighting up with realization. He must have found the connection that I discovered.

"Did you ever have a chance to meet her? Did you know her name?" I kept spouting off questions, as his account of what happened lined up perfectly with my dream.

"Her name was Margaret. I can't for the death of me, remember her surname. I possibly hadn't cared enough to remember. I never had the chance to meet her whilst she was alive. When we discovered her body, her face had been horrifically marred by the work of a dagger. It was Moriarty. It happened only weeks before we fell off the falls together." I felt his light touch at my hair, tucking it behind my ear. It was a gentle gesture from a man whose reputation claimed he had a heart of stone.

I watched as he vanished and reappeared by my bedroom door. Guilt, regret, and confusion weighed on him, I was sure. His eyes conveyed a sort of wistfulness in them when he looked at me. My ghostly companion said nothing more before disappearing once more. It was obvious he felt responsible for what had happened. I wonder if it had occurred to him that I was possibly his long-dead fiancée, reincarnated. After what I've been through these past couple of weeks, I couldn't deny it. I felt it in the very core of my soul, with every fiber of my being.

* * *

Thomas never came back to the hospital, and for good reason. His plan to drug and kidnap me had failed, but I had a hunch that he was still out there plotting something big. As for Sherlock, I hadn't seen him for a couple of days. Perhaps, I shouldn't have pushed for the story. Granted, he had always claimed to not be one for sentiment, but I could understand if he felt at fault for her death. If I truly was the reincarnation of Margaret—and, I was completely sure by this point—I would only blame myself; for running, for not taking the time to get to know him. If my past self was anything like my current incarnation, she would've fallen in love with him. He may not have returned her affections, but I was sure he would've grown to love her with time.

I continued to carry the pocket watch with me, even if my companion refused to materialize. I was missing him fiercely, especially now that I knew how it would feel once we succeeded in bringing Thomas in. I, of course, had reported what happened at that disastrous dinner date, but it was as if our serial killer disappeared. He wouldn't be found until he was good and ready, and that's what I was afraid of.

It wasn't until the week before Halloween when someone had called Scotland Yard about yet another body…this time it had been one of their own. I was called to the scene, only to find Detective Inspector Hopkins brutally stabbed. D.I. Dimmock was one of the few on the scene as well, struggling to keep his emotions in check. From what I could tell, he had fancied her greatly. The first thing I did was check both hands, finding the expected calling card on her right palm. My heart broke for her—still so very young.

"This is getting serious." I was startled by Sherlock's sudden presence, having not heard from him in days, my hand over my heart as if it would will it to slow down. I had to be careful in answering him, as there were others nearby, but not necessarily paying attention to me.

"Getting serious!? It's been serious," I hissed in a whisper. "Where've you been?"

"Thinking." His tone was cold, as if he were put out with me.

There were footsteps from afar, sounding as if it came from the cemetery across the street, going by the crunching of leaves I heard. There was someone over there, the shadow unmistakable. As quickly as I saw the silhouette, it disappeared.

"I will return to your side in a moment." Sherlock evaporated, but never reappeared to me. He must have seen what I noticed in the cemetery. I had no idea how far a distance he could go from the item he was attached to. Whilst he was away, the body was taken on a stretcher after my examination. However, when he did return, he looked frightened—about what, I hadn't a clue.

"What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost." Normally, we would've laughed at such an unintentional joke, but nothing moved him. He looked paler than usual; even his eyes lacked the brightness I so adored.

"You need to get away from here, Miss Hooper," he warned me in a low voice. "It is not safe for you here." I could tell that this was no game, but I couldn't just hop in a cab and go home. I was needed at the hospital, and I told him so. To which he only replied, "Make it quick, then." However, when we arrived in the morgue, he still refused to say anything about what he saw.

"If you're not going to tell me what's going on, the least you could do is—"

"It was Moriarty," he murmured, lost in thought.

"Well, yes, we established it was a descendant of him." Obviously, I already knew this, but I had the feeling he meant the real Moriarty.

"James Moriarty is possessing Thomas Jameson," Sherlock elaborated. He went from zero to sixty, suddenly burning with rage. "Jameson performed a ritual to bring back his ancestor's spirit, becoming a willing host for my adversary.

I nearly dropped my scalpel in surprise. "And he told you that!?"

"Indeed," he confirmed, sullenly. "Moriarty, not Jameson. Thomas wasn't there at all—only Moriarty." The faraway expression on his face told me there was more he had yet to reveal, but the question was, would he tell me?

"What did he say to you? Anything other than that little factoid?" I pressed him. We were so close to solving this case, he couldn't give up now. Much to my surprise Sherlock recounted the conversation for me in perfect detail.

 _"Well well well, look what the grim reaper dragged in," Moriarty chuckled. "Can't say I'm surprised."_

 _"How are you here? What are you up to?" Sherlock demanded, no patience for his adversary's games._

 _"She's a pretty little thing," Moriarty remarked, nodding towards Molly across the street. "Hasn't changed a bit. Poor Margaret—never saw it coming. It seems she found a way back, after all."_

 _"How. Are. You. Here!?" Sherlock was seething with rage._

 _"You've met my brother's descendant; Thomas Jameson," Moriarty answered with glee. "He possessed the same spirit I had at that age. It was all because of him that I'm here in front of you, Holmes. And now I possess him. Impressed?"_

 _"Not in the slightest," Sherlock growled, his nose flaring. "Why did you kill Margaret? I hadn't even met her yet, so what made you think she was someone I cared for?"_

 _"Because I knew that she was someone you would have grown to care for, but never have the chance. This time, it seems I have a chance at taking her away from you again." Moriarty was quite pleased with himself. "Except this time, I can tell you care a great deal for her, which will only make this victory sweeter. Until we meet again."_

I looked upon my friend, my mouth agape. "I knew it."

"What? That I care for you? So what if I do? It's not as if I'm in lo—"

"I am Margaret. I mean, that's the name I was born with, but I've always been called Molly. I'm a reincarnate." I had an inkling, of course, but to hear it as fact shook me. "Sherlock." I spoke in a soft voice. "If it's any consolation, I don't blame you for what happened to her—me."

"That doesn't matter now, does it?" he snapped in frustration. "I am useless here, Miss—"

"Call me 'Molly,' I interrupted him.

"Molly," he continued, trying it out. "I have no way of protecting you."

"That isn't your job," I reasoned with him, trying to ease his mind. "I'll be okay. It's the twenty-first century, Sherlock Holmes. As much as I appreciate that you care enough to protect me, I can take care of myself."

And that's when all hell broke loose.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Quite a few revelations in this crazy long chapter! Most of you have figured these reveals out by now, but even so, there's still the task of how can their love come to light? We shall see...


	6. Evanescent

"Tick tock…time's run out." Moriarty's sinister words rang out in a frighteningly soft voice. From outside the morgue, I could hear Meena shouting at Thomas, which only meant it was a matter of time before I was truly in danger. The lights were flickering rapidly, and the ground was shaking.

"Molly." Sherlock's voice was firm, as was his grip on my wrist. It took intense concentration and tremendous energy for him to become corporeal, but I felt a kind of warmth at the fact that he only did it for me. "You need to let me in."

"What do you mean?" And then it hit me. "You want to possess me."

"Possess is a strong term; you aren't an object. And besides, it won't be full possession; just enough to help fend off the Moriartys."

I didn't have a moment to think before I felt him jump inside me. It was the strangest sensation. It felt like a breeze inside of my body, as if I were hollow. The door burst open, and I grabbed the scalpel immediately. It was Thomas, but in full possession. James Moriarty's voice is the one we heard leave his lips.

"How disappointing; I was looking forward to seeing Holmes again, but it appears he isn't here." His voice sent chills through my body, cutting through me like shards of ice. His emotionless eyes spotted the pocket of my lab coat, the chain of the watch hanging over. "If the watch is here, then so he must be."

Thomas, possessed by his ancestor, lunged for the watch, but thanks to Sherlock's quick reflexes, I was out of the way in time. I could feel my body being handled with precision and a strength I've never known under Sherlock's indelible skill. I already knew basic self-defense, but it was handy to have my ghostly companion's ability to predict Moriarty's every move under my sleeve.

I felt my breath knock out of me when Sherlock forced himself out of me and in through Thomas, successfully pushing Moriarty out of his host. The sensation of Sherlock leaving my body, he and Moriarty going for one another as spirits was surreal and mesmerizing….until I felt Thomas's hands close tightly around my neck. There were a few advantages to being short, and one was being able to kick back against his knee, causing him to double over and release his grip. The air being sucked into my lungs burned.

Whilst I caught my breath, I watched the seemingly choreographed battle of two lifelong enemies. The blows were fierce as Sherlock and Moriarty dealt their near deadly assaults on one another…well, if they weren't already dead. My grip on the scalpel I snagged tightened, feeling the intensity of the situation. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thomas rise from the cold floor, and reflexively swung my hand back into his leg with my scalpel. He shouted out with pain, but soon, I felt his wrath. His blow to my back sent me reeling across the floor, when Sherlock's spirit once again entered me, giving Thomas a blow to the head that temporarily left him unconscious.

I searched my person for the pocket watch, only to spot it on the floor, across the room, rushing over to snag it. Moriarty's spirit re-entered the moment Thomas's eyelids fluttered, and made a grab for the watch, opening the lid, and fiddling with the lever beneath the dial. I could hear Sherlock's voice from behind me, as he rushed to my side

"Curious…" was all he remarked. I managed to get the watch out of Thomas's grip, but he made one last adjustment to it, causing the ground to shake once more. Flashes of the past circled around us, leaving me in a mixture of awe and fear. The scenes playing out disappeared only seconds after appearing.

"It didn't work!" Thomas shouted with Moriarty's voice in an outrage. "She must be the key! Have Margaret do it, NOW!"

I made a break for the door, but Thomas blocked it off before I could make a run for it. I hadn't a clue what they were trying to accomplish, but I wasn't about to pave the way for their devious plans, especially if I was the key. Moriarty left his host's body once more, leaving Thomas drained of energy. I thought quickly, remembering the sage plant on the table to my right. I tore a few of the leaves off, and grabbed one of the spare rubber bands in my trouser pocket. I slipped as stealthily across the room as Sherlock fought off James once more, and retrieved the last object I needed—Thomas's lighter from his coat pocket.

I lit the bundle of sage in my hands, murmuring quiet prayers as I 'touched' Moriarty's spirit. He shouted in excruciating pain, struggling to keep his wits about him. I was weakening him. I continued to speak the same words over and over, attempting to send him back to where he came from. It wasn't much longer until he flew through the windows at hyper-speed, hopefully going back to wherever Thomas had summoned him from.

"Molly, you were brilliant!" Sherlock smiled brightly, filling me with that amazing sense of pride I loved so much. The cops came on the scene moments later, taking Thomas into custody, as he did attempt to murder me, let alone the other people he killed on his little spree. I was led outside, a shock blanket set over my shoulders once I made it into the chilly air. We defeated Moriarty, and Sherlock stayed close behind, never keeping his eyes off of my huddled form.

It only took a moment before I realized that Sherlock's unfinished business was over. He could disappear at any moment, and I would never see him again. I turned around to make sure he was still with me, but there wasn't any sign of him. I gasped, my breath rattling. The tears came instantly, rolling down my cheeks like a waterfall. I pulled the shock blanket closer around me, noticing an officer approaching me. My eyes stung, my head pounded, and worst of all, my heart ached for the man I almost married in a past life—the man I fell in love with in this life. So, I did what any strong woman would do. I took a deep breath, and braced myself for the onslaught of questions I was about to be asked. I could cry myself to sleep later.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **A BIG THANK YOU TO PENELOPE1730! She got me unstuck from this chapter, and though I don't feel it's my best, I'm as satisfied as I can get lol!**


	7. Falling Through Time

I felt an emptiness I had never known before whilst climbing the stairs up to my flat. He was gone, and damn it all, it hurt like hell. I never even had a chance to say goodbye. A part of me had hoped it wasn't so simple, but then again, the work was all that ever mattered to a man like Sherlock Holmes.

"I believe I've figured out my unfinished business." I jumped at the sound of his unmistakable baritone voice. Several emotions flooded through me in that moment, but the two that came out strong were relief and anger as my eyes settled on Sherlock who was lying on my sofa, fingers steepled below his chin.

"You bloody bastard!" I shouted at him, attempting to slap him as if he was alive, but my hand only went through him.

"One should never try to fight a ghost…a bit transparent, don't you think?" he quipped, lifting one corner of his mouth into a smirk. I couldn't be angry any longer, and finally laughed, the tears that welled up in my eyes rolling down my cheeks.

"Where did you go?" I questioned him. "What made you think it was a good idea to just disappear like that? I thought I'd never see you again!"

"Molly, if I may?" He looked at me, waiting for my approval to allow him an explanation. "I needed a moment to myself after all that happened. You see, I figured out that Moriarty wasn't the only portion of my unfinished business a couple of days ago. I knew there must be more. Well, when you told me of your dreams, it clicked."

"Me? I'm part of your unfinished business? But how—" I was at a loss for words. What did this mean?

"I never said a word simply because it felt to be a fruitless effort. Second chances do not exist in these cases," he explained. "The duration of my lifetime was spent on nothing but the work. I never had any regrets until the day I knew death would be coming for me. It is a regret I realize I still bear—something you have reminded me of."

"And what might that be?" I asked, willing to help him with whatever came next. My heart was beating profusely. What did it say about me that I was in love with a ghost, and hoped to hear he felt the same?

Sherlock took a deep breath, readying himself for whatever he was about to say. "Once more unto the breach." It was muttered to himself, but I heard it clearly. "For the entirety of my life, I dismissed romantic entanglements; they were pointless, really. Not once did I ever care for it. It took my whole life to figure out I only despised such fanciful notions because I found myself unworthy, not that anyone ever understood me." Sherlock went to grab for the pipe he longed to have for this speech. "Miss Hooper, forgive me for being so forward, but you must know I feel out of sorts over this revelation. What I mean to say is that in death you have showed me life. And though it is much too late for me, I should still like to tell you that I seem to have fallen quite deeply in love with you."

I was taken aback by his confession. For weeks I had berated myself for falling for a ghost, but now felt at ease, for he loved me just the same—the very man who just wouldn't stop babbling.

"I see that I have shocked you, and I am sorry, but let this be a lesson to you, Miss Hooper. Do not hold back your heart. If you love someone, tell them. It is a heavy burden that will weigh on your shoulders if you don't say a thing," he continued. "You may very well miss out on—"

"Mister Holmes," I interrupted him. Still babbling. "Sherlock." That got his attention. "I love you too."

"You—what?" his jaw dropped ever so slightly. "This is a cruel joke."

"Excuse me?"

"It is the hand I have been dealt. I denounced love as non-existent, but it shows up in my life—well, afterlife—when it's too late for either of us. My darling, forgive me. How I wish I hadn't been so dismissive of you when we both had a chance. I am simply a man out of my time."

"Or perhaps I'm a woman out of her time," I remarked, realizing how true it was. That's when I remembered the pocket watch, and what Thomas tried to do. He was ranting about going back in time to stop James Moriarty's death as if it were a realistic notion. But after seeing scenes of the past play out in the morgue, I was beginning to believe anything was possible.

"I know that look," Sherlock remarked. "You have an idea."

"It may not work," I warned him. "If I'm correct, this watch has a power only I can unlock. Why is that? Perhaps it's because of your unfinished business. If I could literally turn back time with this, I could go back before I ran away from you."

"Yes, and you'd remember everything because you had two lives." He stared off into the distance, wistfully. And then I realized the issue with this plan.

"You won't remember me, will you?" Might as well address the elephant in the room.

"Possibly not," was all he said in reply. "I have no doubt though." He stood to face me, the height difference slightly staggering.

"Oh?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

I knew he went corporeal the moment I felt his hand cradling my cheek. "If I fell in love with you once, I'll fall in love with you again." His voice was soft, and reassuring. "Do you trust me?"

"With my life," I answered honestly. He then proceeded to tell me the date and time to set the watch, for he remembered it still. I did as was told, and began to see scenes of my past life playing out around us. His hand on my cheek was beginning to feel more solid with each passing moment. Before I had time to process any of it, his lips were on mine, and it was as if we were floating into oblivion until everything went black.

* * *

I woke up to sunlight. A woman was opening the heavy curtains roughly. I squinted at having been woken up in such a manner. I hadn't any idea where I was until I remembered what had occurred moments before, but felt like months. I could still feel the pressure of his lips on mine. _Sherlock_.

"Apologies for the rude awakening, Miss Hooper, but I did allow you to sleep longer than what is allowed. You looked as if you had a long night, and you need all the sleep you can get before the evening's events," the woman—my lady's maid—told me.

"Oh, that's quite alright," I assured her, slipping out of bed. "What event is this evening, if I may ask?"

She came over to feel my head, thinking I was fevered. Maybe I was. "Why, you're meeting the dashing man your parents have arranged for you to marry. How could you forget such things?"

"Must have slipped my mind," I reasoned, smiling to myself. We did it. Second chances really did exist. I knew he wouldn't remember me, but maybe, with the right words or actions, something would trigger his memory. After all, both of us were sent back. My two lives meshed into one, so perhaps his afterlife memories meshed with his current ones, if only subconsciously.

One thing was for sure, and that was no matter what, I would not be stepping foot outside of my home. Not even for a second.

* * *

"You seem awfully anxious for this meeting, Miss Hooper," my lady's maid, Anna, remarked. I felt her tighten my corset, squeezing my waist and pushing up my breasts slightly. I know I lived through this once, but I still couldn't get used to feeling like I went through the laundry wringer.

"I am," I answered honestly, my stomach doing somersaults. I admired my delicately woven hair in the mirror. My curls were pinned to the back of my head, loose, soft, and romantic.

"According to Doctor Watson, he is not very fond of romantic relations, but—"

"I have heard as such, Anna, but I get the feeling this won't be a loveless marriage."

After she wished me luck, Anna disappeared to the servants' quarters. It wasn't long before I heard his voice downstairs. My heart fluttered at the sound. Even if he never remembered our time together before this, I knew in my heart that he loved me. And that was all that mattered.

I made my way toward the staircase, carefully taking each step so as not to fall in these heels. My dress was a striking emerald green, and thankfully, the bustle wasn't too ridiculous.

"Mother, if you want grandchildren so bad, why not enforce such things on Mycroft?" I heard Sherlock complain. "He is the eldest, after all. And besides, why should I deprive this poor girl of marrying someone who's actually good enough—" He stopped short as his eyes drank in the sight of me. I hoped he'd at least feel a sense of déjà vu. "—for her."

"Ah, Mister Holmes, meet our lovely daughter, Margaret Hooper," my father took my hand as I took the last step down.

"A pleasure, Miss Hooper," Sherlock greeted me, his tone void of any emotion. I could handle this, I told myself. It made my heart ache terribly, but at least there was a chance of falling in love all over again.

After dinner, we all convened in the drawing room for drinks. Our parents got along tremendously, to my relief, but I couldn't help but feel pained at the fact Sherlock refused to even look at me. I had to remember to keep my wits about me, and not take any modern action over this. In these times, it was improper for a lady to just kiss her betrothed. I had to make conversation.

"Are you enjoying your time here, Mister Holmes?" I asked, hoping I could get more than a grunt.

"That would be an overstatement, Miss Hooper," he said coldly. "If I had my way, I would not be here at all." Okay, so no such luck on that topic.

"What would you rather be doing?" I inquired further, hoping for a connection.

"Solving murders."

"Murders?" My mother piped up. "You may not know this, Mister Holmes, but our daughter is the only woman that works at St. Bartholomew's. She is a pathologist, and works with murder victims all the time." Oh, thank goodness I still have my job in this time period; such a rarity. I silently mouthed thank you to my mother.

"A pathologist? Really? I do admire your intellect, Miss Hooper. Perhaps you could work on my cases with me in the future," Sherlock suggested. His cerulean eyes held a glimmer of admiration. We were getting somewhere at least.

Despite societal normalcies, our parents gave us a chance to speak alone with one another as I gave him a tour of my home. We stopped in the ballroom for a rest when the conversation took a turn.

"I know this marriage isn't exactly convenient for you," I began.

"Marriage," he scoffed. "Miss Hooper, I do not concern myself with such entanglements, and I am sure you can't want this either. So, I suggest we have a child so my mother stops pestering me, you leave me to my work, and you won't be labeled a spinster. We each get something out of this."

"Excuse me, Mister Holmes, but I will not be a brood mare," I interjected. "You're not going to take a chance to truly get to know me? And for your information, I am only twenty-eight years old."

"Yes, and you're not getting any younger," he retorted.

I was fuming to the point where I nearly forgot everything we had been through before this. I took a moment to calm myself, remembering that this was just a façade he puts up. I approached him slowly, rising up on my toes, whispering to him, "I see right through you, Mister Holmes."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** How about that declaration he made? Tell me what y'all think! Will Sherlock get his memories unlocked? We'll just have to see!


	8. Our Souls, Entwined

_Sherlock trudged up the stairs to his flat, his mind and heart in a battle with one another. The moment he stepped inside 221B, he knew deep down that something was missing…but what? Everything seemed to be in place, just as he left it. He looked over at the chair opposite his by the fireplace. His mind palace flashed an image of a woman, clearly not from a time such as this, judging by her clothes. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she was reading a book—Wuthering Heights—with reading glasses perched on her nose._

 _"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same," he quoted to himself. "Molly." But who was Molly? She looked awfully similar to Margaret. Sherlock sat himself down in his chair, preparing for a long night in his mind palace._

* * *

"Margaret, dear, are you alright?" I looked up from my journal I was writing in to see my mother standing in the doorway.

"Huh? Oh, I'm alright, I suppose," I replied, playing with my braided hair that rested over my shoulder.

"I brought you a fresh cup of tea; chamomile, you're favorite," she told me, setting the lovely china teacup on my nightstand. "Sleep well, Margaret."

I lifted the cup to my mouth, taking a sip. "Thank you, mum." I waited until she left to continue writing. I sighed, longing to be in Sherlock's presence even if his memory was foggy. I was beginning to feel unsettled, remembering that Moriarty had been hiding out in the woods behind my house. Was he still there? Would he kill me in the middle of the night? If I had said something earlier, everyone would've wondered how I could possibly know his whereabouts. I wouldn't know how to explain it.

It wasn't long before I ended up drifting off to sleep, when what felt like only moments later, a commotion sounded from downstairs. I sat up straight in bed, and climbed out, slipping on my cream-colored dressing gown. I padded my way into the drawing room where everyone seemed to be gathered. Detective Inspector Lestrade, my parents, and—my heart beat wildly in my chest—Sherlock. It was his mesmerizing eyes that caught me lurking in the doorway.

"Miss Hooper, come in," he invited. "This concerns you." His tone was deadly serious, and for once, I was truly frightened. I was suddenly unsure if I wanted to know what was happening, but with an uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture, Sherlock took my hand in his. Well, it was uncharacteristic for pre-in love Sherlock, anyways. "Don't be afraid, Miss Hooper; you're alright now."

"What's happened?" I asked, wondering why everyone was staring at me as if I had risen from the dead.

"James Moriarty was sighted near your home," Lestrade informed me. "He had his sights set on harming you, miss. We attempted to apprehend him, but he got away from us."

"I see." I had been that close to meeting my demise yet again. All of this would have been for naught, but I knew I shouldn't dwell on it now. Besides, I was far too distracted what with the pad of Sherlock's thumb rubbing circles gently against my palm.

"Yes, well, Mister and Missus Hooper, may I have a moment alone with your daughter?" Sherlock requested, in a somewhat urgent tone. They agreed to leave us, along with Lestrade, closing the door behind them. I was about to question him as to what he wanted to speak about when suddenly, his lips were on mine. They felt deliciously soft against mine, and I couldn't help but tangle my fingers in his hair. I felt hypersensitive with his hands caressing me—one on my waist, the other cradling my head—and his body pressing up against mine in such a scandalous way. My vocal cords betrayed me, as I couldn't help but hum in pleasure as his tongue mingled with mine. I hadn't a clue of what brought this on, until I heard one word that changed my life once more.

" _Molly_." He spoke my name in a tone that projected relief, and such needfulness. That's when it hit me.

"You remember me!?" I was so happy, I could almost cry. Sherlock ran his thumb gently across my cheek; I had been crying after all.

"Yes, my darling," he replied in a loving voice. "You've always seen me." He placed his hands on either side of my face, the look in his eyes was one I'd never forget. "Just as Emily Brontë wrote, 'Whatever our souls are made of—"

"—His and mine are the same," I finished. He had remembered one of my favorite quotes, strangely applicable to our situation. "I'm so glad I found you."

"As am I," he replied softly, leaning his forehead against mine.

"What will we do about Moriarty?"

"Don't you worry about it," he assured me. "I have a plan only my pathologist can help me with."

"Oh?" I remarked, unable to keep from smiling.

"But first, we must be married."

I hadn't a clue what he had in mind, but I knew that no matter what came our way, we would overcome it.

* * *

 **Two Years Later**

"Sherlock?" I called out, hoping I hadn't caught him at a busy time.

"What is it, darling?" he asked, looking up from his case files. "You're not ill are you?"

"Goodness, no!" I laughed. "Well, not yet anyways." His brows drew together in confusion. I approached him, sitting in his lap and looping my arms around his neck. "I'm pregnant." I watched in fascination as his eyes lit up with joy.

"Molly Holmes, I love you." It was all he said before resting a hand against my belly, not yet showing, my skin taut. He pressed his lips to my neck, murmuring sweet notions against my skin. Needless to say, Sherlock was thrilled with the news, and we celebrated at all hours of the night, into morning, basking in our slice of happiness.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **I hope y'all enjoyed this final chapter! Please, let me know what you loved about it!**


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